


Immunity

by aperture_living



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Drama, Explicit Language, M/M, Poison, Psychological Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 15:36:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aperture_living/pseuds/aperture_living
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a schedule to the day, to every day, every second that ticked by, nothing wasted, nothing lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Immunity

**Author's Note:**

> It's more of a "blink and you might miss it" sort of pairing, if I have to be honest...

There was a schedule to the day, to every day, every second that ticked by, nothing wasted, nothing lost. It was for his betterment, Orochimaru said; it was for his _goal_. It was for the carrot that dangled before his face that made him walk forward, forever forward, forever farther away, and he marched with an ass’ focus, with a donkey’s desire. They were magic words, _revenge avenger goal Uchiha Itachi_ , but they made him work on puppet strings and the trainer knew it. Used it. Did what it took to perfect what ultimately belonged to him.

And Sasuke didn’t care, because the end justified the means, because he was too busy every day to care. The world was structured and quarantined and isolated with training and techniques and more training, and that was fine; if he didn’t think, didn’t dwell, then he wouldn’t reflect on what he walked away from. He wouldn’t remember how ribs shattered around his fist, how flesh parted as easily as the orange fabric that encased it, how cold the rain was as he bowed over that familiar unconscious face that sometimes he saw in his dreams. He wouldn’t think about what he almost ( _should have? shouldn’t have?_ ) killed.

_Shit._

At dusk, when the sky bled purple across the gash of horizon, Kabuto would come to his room with a tray scattered with various filled cups. He would sit, silent as the dim light would reflect off his glasses, observing as Sasuke drank each and every one to the bottom, the final drop, and would be sullenly impressed that the Uchiha never once made a face at the abhorrent taste. The first few times Kabuto had attempted to speak to him, needling information and reactions out of that sullen resolve, but finding nothing of value, resorted to sitting and understanding his quiet body language, his eyes.

Always the eyes.

When finished, he would gather the tray and leave Sasuke to his room, as they all did. And in return, Sasuke would sit on his bed, his back against the cold stone walls, and try to meditate through the pain, the nausea, the poison that edged its way through his body, not enough to lay claim to his organs but enough for him to feel the rolling in his stomach, the burning in his esophagus, the disconnection in his thoughts. It was a nightly ritual, like all of them, “a necessary evil” Orochimaru hissed, to build up his tolerance so no one could take him down with something so simple. Sasuke knew it was a challenge, a threat, a dominating tactic as well as a show of power; if he wanted to, if he was weak, the youngest Uchiha could be killed by something as simple as a few tasteless drops in a glass of water.

So every night, he drank deep, his eyes narrowed and glued to Kabuto as he did like a taunt, and then was left to sit and meditate through the hallucinations that came after. Every night it was the same thing: the sound of Sakura crying, the chirp of Kakashi’s chidori nearly drowning it out, Naruto grabbing his shirt and screaming that he was bringing him home right _fucking **now**_ because how could he weaken ( _never break, it would never break_ ) a team like that, come back come back _come **backgoddamit**_! And finally before sleep, it would be Itachi, Itachi and his body of crows, Itachi and the blood-soaked clothes as he made to cut him down while laughing at him and his weakness.

It fit into a routine like everything else, and every morning he would wake with the same thought embedded in his mind, down deep amid the determination and the hate that continued to grow and be fostered:

_Which poison is he building me up against? The ones in the cup, or the ones from Konoha._

And Sasuke knew the truth deep down, even if he wouldn’t admit it just yet.

_**Both.** _


End file.
